


Valhalla...

by Ruuuka



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), mild thorki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21663988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruuuka/pseuds/Ruuuka
Summary: And there comes Thor, leader of the Royal Army, his elder brother, the approval in the blue eyes is the solid ground to Loki's triumph. Thor must be the key figure, he thinks. Because this is his perfection, this is his contentment, this is Valhalla.Except that it isn't.
Relationships: Loki & Thor (Marvel), Loki/Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	Valhalla...

It's the final station of this world, the realm that the worthy enter, the place where everything that matters, and only that, is existent.

Loki is mildly disappointed.

The millions inhabiting this warless land admire him; occasionally appearing schemers are unveiled and defeated by him in person and public, which only strengthens his name. These people wouldn't have anyone but him for King. They're all clad in fine draperies, the guards wear armour of gold, the horns on their helmets throw the sunshine about. His are pointed and delicately arched, a perfect balance of intimidation and refinement. His cape is long, light to the shoulders but with a definite fall onto the floor. He wears green: his colour is the national symbol of valour. War remains firmly at the borders; outsiders cross them with a purpose of nothing but awing at the flourish of his land, or pleading to be of service and gain support for their countries. And Loki graciously affords whatever they need.

He wields Mjolnir.

And there comes Thor, leader of the Royal Army, his elder brother, the approval in the blue eyes is the solid ground to Loki's triumph.

Thor must be the key figure, he thinks. Because this is his perfection, this is his contentment, this is Valhalla.

Except that it isn't.

It could be, he argues with himself constantly, if he’d let it. Why not sink into the bliss offered?

Because bliss never comes for free.

This is the reward of prevalence against torment, he argues. Valhalla opens to those that have made a deserving choice. He probably has.

He cannot tell, his arrival here is clouded over by hundreds of years past. It could all be a play of his mind pushed into a trance by someone mightier. Or he could as well have cast an infinite illusion on himself as a means of escape. From life, from sorrow, from torture, from someone. Given his abilities, he could be another person charmed to believe he was Loki. For all he knows, he could be an offensive warthog hypnotised into tranquillity, waiting for the blade to run through his heart. And that’s where it’s wise to end the futile debate.

It’s best not to show any sign of suspicion anyway, as long as it is unclear when, where, how he’s being seen.

He walks the sky high corridors with eyes open.

He detects the Universe in the blue of his brother's iris. It catches his attention at night first, when the thunder god sits down next to him near his chambers, and starlight alone reaches their faces. They chat lightly, meeting halfway between Loki's manifold depth and Thor's crystalline heights. The stars wander around ever-so-slowly in those eyes while he speaks to them, and he wonders how far their numbers stretch until it fades into complete darkness. Thor lets him know that nothing, no vile man and no tainted ideal, is to ever reach its claws up to the heart of this kingdom while he's around.

He’s definitely the key figure of the play, Loki thinks. He pays attention to his brother's ways, especially the private ones, from then on. He sees him be the heart of group chatters, throbbing warm and held in high value. He catches him prepare for the feasts by secretly ordering the servants to bring forth the largest cups for all guests, choosing the most suitable barrels of ale, inviting the best-reputed musicians from the common folks to the celebration unasked. Loki studies him training and sparring, allows himself to be discovered sometimes, yields to his invitation and joins in now and then, if only to observe the night of a darkened moon in the pupils dilated from labour.

Thor watches him hover over maps in the afternoon silence of the library. Shows him where troops were sent that morning. His eyes smile while attentive to Loki’s suggestions, their Universe dims behind sunlit clouds then; he only mildly disagrees with the shrewd tactics, if ever. Thor himself never leaves the palace grounds. His boredom, perhaps, is what revives a childhood habit: he regularly barges in to the sorcerer’s nightly recluse with news or plights that could really wait till the next morning. He arrives in the most polite manner he can manage, huskily asking for admittance into the residence before jumping over the balcony’s railings to which he climbed up. In the curtain-veiled lights, his short-lived excitement over the presented matter dances as fumes in his eyes, dimming the stars or recolouring them. Loki isn’t afraid of sending him off to Hel when lost in the codices on his desk, because it never discourages the thunder god from returning another time. Thor, though full of vibrating life, is notably compliant.

He was wrong, the sorcerer thinks then: Thor can't be the key figure. He’s never once tried to _guide_ him so far.

The night when this idea takes root in his mind, the suspicion – sensation – of being trapped is stronger than ever.

At last, he gets a chance to sneak towards the border, if any. He hops on Grima the nightly mare and elopes the castle walls unannounced. He can't predict how far he'll get without hindrance, but finding it out could serve as a clue for _more_. So he rides, and rides, and rides, for three full days.

Reaching the grasslands away from any settlements, he passes burnt fields scattered with poles and the severed heads of enemies, glowing orbs of green above them praise the King. Fine grass, shady banks of creeks, mysterious pathways invite to rest, refill, explore. But his interest lies elsewhere now than long forgotten parchments and relics of powers untold. Although the secret could lie in one of those caverns; or it could be a passage leading out-

He pulls back the bridle of his mare as he realises that the beast headed into the thicket towards a hidden entrance on her own, as if sensing his thoughts. The grass among the close-grown trees is tall here but somewhat trod, Loki is certain that he'd find treasures or traitors at the end of it. He still leaves salvation of his land to another day; not like anything could go wrong as long as this world is meant for him. Could it?

He urges Grima to back out of the thicket; she takes several long steps, then shorter, her legs tangle into the vines; Loki calms her, the beast shakes off the plants and keeps reeling on the wobbly ground.

As Loki feels her difficulty to balance, he slides off her back in the narrow passage and guides her rear towards the exit. He pants from the effort while proceeding in the volatile, rickety-muddy twilight; the air is dry, stuck in here from the last field burning nearby, it clamps in his throat and he coughs. At the motion, the ground slips away from him, and so do the plants, the mare, the sky, the light, the air. Unnerved, he tries inhaling but his throat feels tight and bruised, it is a rattle as he fights for the well needed oxygen. Suddenly, everything hurts: his skull is crawling with numbness, his left arm shoots thundering jolts up to his brain, he tries in vain to pull it out of the unknown grasp. His spine aches in its entire length, and he can't feel his legs. Unearthly voices flutter around him, a chilly shiver runs through him as they take up the shape of his name. He feels an urge to run from them, so he struggles away, air rushes past him and only greedily seeps into his lungs, and his eyes roll up at the lack.

His back hits the ground painlessly. For a minute, he gazes blankly at the star-spotted evening sky, until the soft rustling of grass worms itself into his consciousness. The mare's nose attempts to toss his head aside, her soft snorting indicates he's lying atop the finest bites.

He cowers away from trying further, and he heads back home for now.

Thor's mighty steed seems to glow in the young evening as he flies towards Loki from the direction of the faraway palace. Grima approaches him with light skips and snorts. Thor sways on his back somewhat dishevelled from a lengthy gallop.

"The land hasn't slept since you were gone," he lets the sorcerer know as greeting. "The soldiers are looking for you in every city."

"Send word that I'm back."

"I hoped you would be."

"Wouldn't you want to be king?"

"I would. But not at such cost."

"What cost? At the cost of me finding amusement on some other path?"

Thor chuckles to himself.

"Maybe so."

They gallop all the way to the city walls. They hand the horses over to the servants and walk across the torch-lit court.

"What is the path you'd rather follow?" Thor inquires.

"Knowledge," Loki responds after some brooding.

“Your mind already harbours the vastness of worlds. What more do you want to know?”

“Some answers would come handy.”

“Don’t you think that to get an answer, you might have to ask first?”

“Perhaps if there were some worthy around of asking,” he smirks with the bitterness of a scholar among infants.

Thor opens his arms as they walk side by side.

“You should ask several people, you never know which of them has the answer you seek. Start with me. What is the question burdening your mind right now?”

Loki contemplates his options. The memory in the thicket looms up before him, and he shivers. He could find out in different ways, bit by bit, scroll by scroll in the library and in hidden parts of this world, he tells himself. Meanwhile, impatience gnaws at him, impatience to _know_ what is – now he feels – inevitable for him to learn.

In the end, he takes the risk to say it.

"This is not Valhalla."

"Oh, brother," the thunder god huffs quietly, smiling at his brother’s calculated tone. "It could be, you know."

"I know."

He does. By those words, he understands fully at once. It isn't Valhalla.

"It is a choice offered," Thor summarises his thoughts.

It is a choice. It could be Valhalla. It would be, from the moment he decided, wanted so.

“How did I get here?” he asks, more of the air than of his brother, suspecting that the answer is no more existent than his memories.

"You don't seem to want to forget," Thor derives.

The sorcerer gazes at him, without an urge to deny the pain creeping into his eyes.

"You're not there."

"True," Thor admits. "I am over here."

Loki smiles at the pleading look.

"You are. But you're something else than my brother of the past."

"Am I? There is no past here, no desire, and no lack. I am your brother for good."

"Thor," he says, the name rolls on his tongue with long not felt serenity. "I will never have you, as I never had my brother."

"Your words are of the living world." It isn’t resent, it’s mere observation.

"I'll ride out tomorrow," he decides.

Thor shakes his head, faintly smiling as his hand seeks out the back of Loki’s neck.

"You don't need to journey for that. What you choose is there were you are, at all times."

Loki steps closer into the hold.

"I want to spend the night," comes his confession, the bravest yet, as their look intertwine.

He expects courteous rejection, compensating lukewarmly with something else. Or a dismaying ease of submission. Anything but a stop in his breath as now both hands frame his face with warmth, and he freely melts into their weight, unrestrained by grudge or fear or hurt, until the next words come.

"The morning will be no different, Loki. It's a heartbeat. You'll never be ready."

He closes his eyes as his past wisdom sinks in, marvels at Thor's unconditional support, at how he has dreamed Thor up like this: like a failsafe, in case he slips away from control. He observes the varying depths of the Universe in his eyes. It's definitely not him. The brother that lives to serve him is not his brother. Asgard is not Asgard here. The people embracing someone like him are not the people that are his.

It is but a heartbeat.

The world compresses with him, its lights crystallise, pierce his mind painfully and then die off. Sharp throbbing remains inside his skull, like his brain had just been scooped out. He listens into the aching darkness inside, and then obeys the need.

He gulps for air.

The giant hand around his throat won’t let him. The one before whose power he shook holds his neck tight, sending him back. He struggles against the immovable force, his legs kick nothing, his bare fingers claw at metal, his voice protests with the last drops of air inside.

He believes to have died when silent darkness weighs on his motionless, disobeying body. His look arches towards the faintest source of light slowly sharpening into a square to the left of him. Dark walls loom up as dully as the pain throbbing all around. Air travels generously along his aching spine, although stumbling in his gullet.

The urge to cough doesn’t jerk his body as much as expected, it manifests as nothing but some powerless nudges of his flaring lungs.

The meek noise induces rustling nearby; now the light is enough for him to see the large bulk of hair and tattered fleece approaching. The being presses into the pillow under his head, towers over him like a tent and addresses him as brother.

He closes his eyes for a few seconds to clear his already tired vision, and then opens them up again at the source of the hushed, soaked, gentle rambling. He closes and opens them several more times, but the sight doesn’t change. It is now even more distinct in the lifting night.

He would clarify this and that, but the spikes in his neck think otherwise, and they grow more vicious at his resistance.

“Easy, now,” he hears the crystallised rumble, a heavy palm lies up against the top of his head. “No rush. There is no danger to run from. Thanos is dead, brother. And you’re here now. All will be fine soon.”

He thinks of where he came from, how much lighter his body was there, how much quicker everything got resolved. Only this one voice was the same, the low vibration he’d heard for a thousand years, coming from a foreign mass of flesh.

“We’ve found you near the route we chose. Whatever miracles work this world, they intended for us to meet again. But you took your time deciding whether you’d live or not. Or you just enjoyed further stretching me, I don’t know and you better not admit to it just yet, you’re too fragile for my rage.”

In a desire for confirmation, Loki lifts a heavy hand, but he doesn’t ease into the grasp welcoming it. The figure bends closer to the bed leniently, letting his shaky fingers rest up on the freely grown beard, then clamber up; a thumb lightly pulls the skin under the scarred eye.

"It's a fake eyeball from Rabbit. He's a new friend that collects artificial body parts," rumbles the deep voice closer than ever, and the witless comment assures Loki that he’s in the right place.

"Wash it," his lips form weakly, eyes already closed for another short slumber.

**\- End -**


End file.
